Some Are Sicker Than Others (46 page)

Monty crouched to the floor and pulled out his green gym bag then unzipped the zipper and pulled out his jeans and a fresh long-sleeve shirt. He pulled them all on and slid into his tennis shoes then grabbed his black snowboard jacket along with his gloves.

Once he got outside, he walked briskly towards the cobblestone driveway, the wailing of the ambulance now a distant murmur muffled by the insulation of the mountain snow. When he got to the front of the house, he noticed something perplexing—there appeared to be tiny droplets of what looked like vomit dribbled out across the boot-trampled lawn. He did his best to avoid stepping in any of it, by playing a game of hopscotch across the crunchy snow. Once he made it through, he ascended the steps of the front porch and walked into the main house through the front door.

As he walked through the foyer, he noticed something even more perplexing—a group of people, all huddled together in a tight little circle. They were embracing one another and talking very softly, as if they were at a funeral bereaving the dead.

“What’s going on?” Monty said, as he approached them. “What happened? Who was in the ambulance?”

One of them looked up, a bald man with the earrings, an expression of sorrow worn into his face. He was about to speak when someone called out to Monty from the opposite end of the foyer. He turned and looked. It was Dexter, standing in the light of the kitchen doorway, his hand extended, waving him in. Oh great. What did he want? Thought he was done with all of his bullshit.

Monty reluctantly slid past the group of mourners and walked across the foyer towards the kitchen. “What do you want?” he said, as he approached the kitchen, his stomach beginning to turn at the sight of Dexter’s face.

Dexter sighed and took off his glasses then began to rub his nose with his forefinger and thumb. Something was wrong. Dexter wasn’t laughing, smiling, or even scowling. In fact, he seemed to have no emotion at all. “Hey Monty,” he finally said, as he put back on his glasses, the bags under his eyes like they’d been stuffed with coins. “You got a minute? We need to talk.”

“What’s it about?”

Dexter hesitated, like he was about to answer, then shook his head and just said, “You’ll find out.”

When they got to his office, Dexter fished his keys from his pocket. “Monty?” he said, in barely a whisper, as if he didn’t have the strength to use his vocal chords.

“Yeah?”

Dexter opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but couldn’t find the words and just dropped his head. “Never mind,” he said, then turned away from him and pushed open the door. “Please come in. Have a seat.”

Monty took a deep breath and stepped in through the doorway, hesitating when he saw Dave hunkered in the corner with his head in his hands. He was sitting on the green couch, slightly hunched over, his feet wide apart, his elbows on his knees. “Hey Dave,” Monty said, as he stepped into the office, his heart beating faster, his hands starting to shake. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

Dave looked up at Monty, for only a moment, then quickly dropped his head as if it was too heavy to hold up. He looked like shit. His eyes were drawn, all puffed up and haggard, and his hair looked like it had gone through a wind tunnel.

“Please have a seat, Monty,” Dexter said, as he shut the door behind him then walked around the desk and slowly sat down.

Monty looked at Dave, then over at Dexter. Something was definitely going on. “What’s this all about?” he said, standing by the doorway, preferring to stay there in case he needed to get out. “Is everything alright?”

“Just have a seat, please.”

“Look, if this is about the damage to the trailer, I’m sorry, I’ll pay for it. I was just pissed off—”

“No.” Dexter cut him off. “This has nothing to do with that. Please, just, have a seat.”

Monty conceded and scuffled towards the armchair that sat directly in front of Dexter’s desk. His mind was swimming with questions about what was happening. If it wasn’t the wall in the bedroom then what the hell was it? And why was Dave here? Why was he just sitting there and not saying anything, looking like a kid who’d been put in detention? What the hell was wrong with him? Did he do something last night that made him angry? Did he say something to him that pissed him off? And what was with the ambulance? Did somebody get injured? Why wouldn’t they tell him what the hell was going on?

Dexter cleared his throat. “Monty,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Dexter paused and looked down at his knuckles, as if the right words were somehow imprinted on the back of his fingers. His hands were shaking, his lips were trembling, and he had little beads of sweat forming just above his upper lip.

Immediately, Monty began to get that uneasy feeling, that feeling of nerves twisting deep inside his gut. Something was off, something was coming, something told him he should get up and run. But he didn’t run. Not this time. Something told him to hold his ground. So, he sat up straight and squared his shoulders, his hands on his knees, his feet on the floor. “What’s going on?” he asked, leaning forward, the twisting in his stomach now up in his throat. 

“Monty”—Dexter’s voice was a delicate whisper, like the exchange of condolences inside a funeral home. He glanced over at Dave, but Dave just sat there, chewing on his nails, staring down at the floor—“There’s something we need to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about Vicky. It’s about the accident.”

The hairs on Monty’s neck began to stand upward like the needles imbedded in a porcupine’s fur. He clenched his jaw and dug his fingers into the armchair, so tight that his hands and arms began to quiver. “What about it?” he said, leaning so far forward, that it looked like his chin might touch the top of Dexter’s skull.

“Well”—Dexter’s eyes darted between Dave and the doorway, as if he was checking to make sure Monty couldn’t escape—“It’s a very fragile situation, and before we get into it, I just want to remind you what it says in the Big Book about forgiveness. Do you remember what it says?”

“What?”

“The Big Book, Monty. Do you remember what it says about forgiveness?”

“Look—cut the shit, Dexter, and just tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

Dexter stared at him for just a moment, then dropped his head and looked back down at his hands. “Alright, well, last night, you told Dave about the accident, about how you weren’t sure whether or not another vehicle ran you off the road?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well, Dave here has some information about it. He believes he might know who the other driver was.”

“
What
?”

“Dave?” Dexter turned and looked over at him. “You wanna tell Monty what you know?”

Dave nodded and finally looked up at Monty—it looked like his head was attached to the floor. His eyes were dripping and his hands were convulsing. He was crying so hard, it sounded like he was choking, the words like something sharp lodged in his esophagus. “Monty,” he said, looking up at him, the snot from his nostrils dripping down his chin. “I’m so sorry. I was fucked up and I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t even remember what happened until you told me last night. Please Monty, forgive me. I fucked up, I’m sorry. I’ll turn myself in. I’ll go to prison. Just tell me what to do. I’ll do whatever you want—”

Monty’s body went numb and he collapsed back into the armchair, watching as Dave’s lips moved up and down. But he couldn’t hear anything that the guy was saying, his words swallowed by a harsh, swilling sound—a sound like water flushing in through the windows, pouring in through the door, filling up the room. He looked down at his hands—they were shaking, his knuckles a trembling, bloodless rage. The sound of the water was getting louder and louder, its continuous drone drowning out all other sound. When he looked back up, Dave was still talking, his tobacco-stained gums flapping up and down. Then, something sharp swelled inside him, something white and hot pumping through his veins. It felt as if God himself had reached down and touched him and injected him with the fury of heaven and hell. He rose up from the armchair, as if lifted by something, his feet beneath him, but not touching the floor.

Then, all he could hear was Dave screaming, pleading with him to get the hell off of him. Monty had Dave’s elbows pinned underneath his knees, his fists like cleavers dropping down on his jaw. He could hear the cartilage splitting beneath him like carrots getting chopped underneath the blade. The blood from Dave’s mouth spilled out onto the carpet and his eyes began to roll into the back of his head, but Monty didn’t stop—he kept on going, the flesh from his knuckles sticking to Dave’s skin. But then something grabbed him and pulled him backward…away from the beating…away from Dave. It was Dexter. He had his skinny arms wrapped around Monty’s shoulders and his hands locked just beneath his collarbone. He pulled Monty back across the office and threw him like a rag doll up against the wall. Then, he took his forearm and plunged it against Monty’s adam’s apple and locked it there just beneath his chin.

“Stop it!” Dexter screamed, as he leaned all his weight into Monty, the pressure from his forearm pinning Monty up against the wall. “Stop acting like this! How many times have you driven intoxicated? How many times have you gotten on that road drunk?”

“Get the fuck off me!” Monty screamed, writhing beneath him, the pressure from the forearm cutting off the air to his lungs.

“Can’t you see, Monty? He’s just like you! The only difference is, you haven’t killed anyone yet. But he has. He admits it. He’s accepted the blame and is ready to face himself. What have you done? Nothing. Nothing since you got here. Nothing but walk around, feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Get the fuck off me. I can’t breathe.”

“No. Not until you tell me you’re forgiven. Not until you tell me that you can forgive yourself.”

Dexter took his forearm and plunged it further against Monty’s adam’s apple, the asphyxiating weight of it turning all light in the room to black. “Say it, Monty. Say you’re forgiven. Say you can move forward. Say it wasn’t your fault.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“BECAUSE I DIDN’T LOVE HER, ALRIGHT!? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANNA FUCKING HEAR!?”

“IS IT THE TRUTH!?”

“YES! YES IT’S THE FUCKING TRUTH!”

Dexter finally released him, removing his forearm from Monty’s throat. Monty collapsed to his knees while coughing, the oxygen in the air rushing back to his lungs. “I didn’t love her,” he said, as he sunk towards the carpet, the light in the room slowly coming back to his eyes. “I didn’t love her, but I needed her. She was the only thing I fucking had.”

“But she’s gone now—”

“And I killed her.”

“No.”

“Yes. I’m the reason she’s fucking dead.”

“But it wasn’t your fault. Dave just told you that. The guy over there just confessed.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

Monty clenched his fists and slammed them against the carpet, his already chewed up knuckles further tearing against the floor. “Don’t you see?” he said, as he looked up at Dexter, the tears in his eyes streaming down his cheeks. “If I hadn’t met her, none of this would’ve happened. If I hadn’t
used
her she’d still be here.”

“That’s bullshit Monty and you know it. You’re just using that as an excuse so you don’t have to recover. You’re taking the blame so you can feel sorry for yourself.”

“So what if I am?”

Dexter paused and took a step backward, his mouth wide open, his shoulders slumped forward.

“Well,” he said, as he looked down at Monty, his eyes filled with deep disappointment. “I guess you’re right back where you first started, hiding behind blame so you don’t have to face yourself. Well go ahead. Keep blaming yourself. Keep pitying yourself and go crawl back inside your hole, because I can’t do this with you anymore. I can’t waste my time and my efforts trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. I have too many other patients in here to worry about—people who actually need and want my help—people like Dave over there, who are ready to recover, who are ready to face themselves. He didn’t have to do this, Monty. But he did. He came forward. Because he knew that if he didn’t, he could never recover. And now that he’s told you, what are you doing? Just hiding behind the same cop-out that you were when you first got here. And that’s pathetic. That’s really pathetic. And I won’t stand by anymore watching you do this to yourself.”

Dexter dropped his head and drew a deep breath inward, then put his hand on his knee and pushed himself up. He walked to the floor safe and knelt down in front of it, pushed the code into the keypad and pulled open the safe. Reaching inside, he pulled out a little, plastic baggy that had Monty’s name taped across. “Here,” he said, as he stood up with the baggy and tossed it out onto the carpet, “it’s all yours. Take it.”

Monty clenched his teeth and put one hand into the carpet then, sliding the other hand against the wall for balance, he slowly pushed himself up. His head was spinning and his throat was throbbing, but somehow he was able to straighten his legs and regain his equilibrium. As he limped across the office, he held his stomach, the blood from his knuckles dripping out across the floor. When he got to the baggy, he stopped and looked down at it, then looked up at Dexter, then back at the baggy.

“What are you waiting for?” Dexter said. “Go on, take it. If you don’t want to be here then get the fuck out.”

Monty bent his knees and crouched next to the baggy then reached out his hand and scooped it up off of the floor. He opened it up and pulled out his wallet, pulled out his keys, and pulled out his phone. He shoved them all inside his jacket pocket and let the remaining contents fall to the floor—his cologne, his razor, his worn out shoelaces—he didn’t really see a need to take them where he was going.

He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders then walked towards the door on the other side of the office. But before he could open it, Dexter walked out after him, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. “Just know, that this is it, Monty…this is your last opportunity. If you walk through that door, you can never come back. And you and I both know that you’ll never make it. You’ll eventually die a sad and lonely alcoholic death. It may not be today and it may not be tomorrow, but eventually, one day, you will die from this thing.”